Archer's Eleven
by nikitee
Summary: The recruiting begins (ch 2 up)... STORY BY BUCK (nikitee's husband, who doesn't want his own account)
1. Objective

ARCHER'S ELEVEN  
  
by Buck  
  
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek, the Enterprise, and Archer's gang. Warner Brothers owns Daniel Ocean and his gang. I dunno who own the Bellagio. This is for fun, not profit.  
  
***  
  
*Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco*  
  
The wide room enveloped him in natural daylight as he took the lone chair with modest disgust. Archer did his best to avoid eye contact and fidgeted, uncomfortable in the company of the Vulcans. It had been nearly three months since the Enterprise had been recalled unceremoniously to Earth, their mission of exploration terminated by the race who had so far helped them expand their appetite for the unknown but who constantly questioned their human ethics. The debriefing at Starfleet Headquarters was just one of many such "interrogations" that he had to endure in the months that followed. There were many questions raised on both sides and by now, he was just going through with the motions, almost subconsciously answering the same questions with only a simple "no, sir" or "yes, sir," just to get it over with quickly.  
  
*Norfolk Naval Yard Museum*  
  
Trip stood in the parking lot beneath the yellow cast of the overhead streetlight sympathetically looking at the long row of naval museum ships berthed along the Norfolk dock. The basket of chicken wings in his left hand furnished a steady stream of distraction to his right hand, fingers sticky with teriyaki sauce. He couldn't help but picture Enterprise next in line alongside this mothball navy, monuments to man's fascination with machinery and motion. Only, it wasn't the time for Enterprise to close her book to history, he knew that. He sucked the tangy sauce off his thumb and forefinger as the young man he was waiting for appeared.  
  
The boy began nervously, "My advisor said it would easier for me if I just paid you with a voucher..." Tucker just stared through him. "...Er, or I could just pay you in credits. Yeah, credits would be fine," he corrected himself.  
  
Commander Charles Tucker III tossed the remains of his late night snack into the nearest waste can and straightened his suit as he followed the man down the dimly lit hallway. Trip hadn't been in uniform in months and was actually enjoying the luxury of the expensive clothing his moonlighting had been providing. The hall emptied into a claustrophobic's nightmare room filled with a half dozen prospective engineering majors from the nearby Old Naval Academy. Here, he tutored the best that could afford him on the basics and theories of warp field dynamics. Sure, the Academy wanted him. But that was Starfleet. And Starfleet bowed to what the Vulcan's thought was important. And if they didn't want him to actually put his knowledge to practice, screw 'em.  
  
He made tree concentric rings with the stylus on the old plasma screen. "Okay, we've got a blowout on damper three, the pitch is out and the injector is breaking up. We're unstable at sublight. Can anybody tell me the answer to this six million dollar question? Sparky?" He motioned to the black haired girl as all eyes darted to the back of the room.  
  
"The gravimetric forces of a nearby red dwarf are depolarizing the containment field?" she answered warily.  
  
"No," Trip returned already pointing to his next victim.  
  
"Helium contamination in the deuterium..."  
  
"Next."  
  
"Clogged constrictor valve?"  
  
Tucker merely shook his head in disappointment and continued on to explain the correct diagnosis and repair. The thought of these kids making a living as starship engineers boggled his mind. Not they they'd ever have to worry about making it as long as the Vulcans kept their thumb pressed on Starfleet. He gave them a few practice simulations to run and crept out to the bar next-door for a few minutes. An ice-filled glass to his forehead merely helped dull the aching in his temples that his students managed to enact in such a short time. There had to be a better way of making a living, he chided himself.  
  
"Is there much money in Kretassian Ceremonial Death Masks?" replied one of the academy plebes.  
  
"Some," Archer replied, playing with the stylus shyly. They all seemed rapt in attention to the darkly dressed stranger as Tucker reentered the dank room.  
  
"Don't let him fool ya, there's boatloads to be made. If -- you know how to move 'em." Trip continued without skipping a beat, making an underhanded jab at one of Archer's naïve if not unorthodox trading experiences.  
  
Archer smiled slightly in amusement, "If only my sources were more reliable." He shot an eyebrow towards Trip, evening the score. Tapping the pen to the screen he enlarged the diagram of the injector, "Looks to me like there's a fault in your AE-35 unit, HAL."  
  
The two-man shuttle zipped over the midnight skyline. "I'm bored," sighed Trip as he rolled the craft towards a rooftop-landing pad.  
  
"You look bored," replied Archer with a slight twinkle in his eye.  
  
"I am bored. You get those dog biscuits I sent?" Tucker missed the little wiry guy.  
  
"Why do you think I came to see you first? Look at you. Pop-quizzing academy flunkies." He glanced over to a tired and listless Trip. The two shared the same longing for adventure that had originally brought them together. Their lack of inactivity only heightened their thirst for any excuse to get back into space. At this point in their lives, the consequences were pointless, the dangers obvious, the Vulcans be damned. But, Archer had a plan.  
  
Trip stirred his coffee as Archer spoke in hushed tones. The nightclub was virtually vacant save for the two and a waitress, soft jazz mixed with the low amber lights. The smell of rum and curacao drifted from the bar. "It's never been done before so it's going to take a lot of planning, big crew, security..." It was clear Archer had been contemplating this for some time and couldn't wait to let Trip in on it.  
  
"Weapons?" Tucker eyes jumped from his drink.  
  
"Not exactly..."  
  
"What's the mission?"  
  
"...But the take -- full Starfleet reinstatement, seek out new life and civilization... and the Enterprise. Our Enterprise."  
  
"What's the mission, cap'n?" Trip pressed again.  
  
"When was the last time you were at warp seven?" was all Archer had to say to get the desired response.  
  
Hooked.  
  
Trip poured over the schematics Archer had laid out before him from his PADD. "Hell, if I'm reading this right, at least I'd like to think I am, I'd say that this is probably the least accessible facility I've ever seen."  
  
The Vulcan High Command Center at B'Lagio on 40 Eridani Prime was a marvel and the pinnacle of Vulcan technical achievement. Trip was afraid to ask where he got the plans to such a facility and decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Vulcans didn't give up their secrets willingly.  
  
"Soval, huh?" Trip chuckled. The former Vulcan Ambassador who recalled the Enterprise and the human mission from deep space exploration was now the Chief Consul responsible for the facility. That bait alone was almost too hard to resist. All he could picture was Enterprise docked in orbit on Jupiter Station. Trip knew immediately the quality of assistance they would require to pull it off if they were to succeed at all. What did they have to lose anyway?  
  
"You'll need at least a dozen guys doing any number of multiple ops. I'd say off the top of my head you're lookin' at a Zephrem Cochrane, a Mayweather, a Reed, two Andorians, Phlox, Hoshi, not to mention the biggest Suliban, ever."  
  
Archer nodded knowingly; already aware of whom he was referring to.  
  
"I need a reason. Why Jon, why do this?  
  
"Why not do it?" Archer started slowly and deliberately. "Because for the last three months of my life I've been blamed for the sins of the human race. Because, a moment ago you were tutoring a handful of warp nerds. And, because the Vulcans always win, unless when that perfect opportunity comes by, you bet it all and take down the Vulcans. I like these odds."  
  
Trip reset his jaw, standing for a few seconds and blinked "Been practicing that speech long?"  
  
"Little bit... Did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it..."  
  
"No, it was good. The nerd bit was good."  
  
*TO BE CONTINUED* 


	2. Recruitment

*Laguna Beach, California*  
  
The view from the ridge-top terrace was tremendous, huge cumulus clouds rolled effortlessly almost within arms' reach, the vista extending uninterrupted in every direction across the horizon. Other than the hue of the sky, she might have called this home. Closing her eyes, the sunlight felt warm against her face but not quite as warm as the red giant of Vulcan. Still, Earth had its charms. She only wished the opportunity to have visited had happened earlier. The shadowed profiles of her visitors temporarily eclipsed Earth's nearest star.  
  
"V'Lar," Archer nodded and extended his hand, remembering how she was fond of the human custom.  
  
"Ambassador," seconded Trip from behind a pair of darkened eyeshades.  
  
"Gentlemen. Please." Gesturing to the chairs opposite her surrounding an ornate Mediterranean table, she pushed her unfinished Plo'naar salad to the side as they sat. "We needn't be so formal, Mr. Tucker." V'Lar had thus far been enjoying a welcomed holiday on a planet she'd had heard much about yet never visited in her ninety years as a career diplomat, and she was certain not to spend it within the confines of the embassy. She listened intently as the two coolly explained their quest. Mostly, she was aghast.  
  
"You two must be mad; I know more about Vulcan security than anyone. I personally instituted and classified more procedures than any of my colleagues. There are imagers, bioscanners, thermosensors, immense vaults, and enough armed personnel to occupy a small moon."  
  
"It's never been tried," Archer countered.  
  
"On the contrary, Captain," She glared. "It has been tried." V'Lar went on the explain in great detail the three failed attempts at coming anywhere near the Vulcan's vast and secretive resource bank of technology, most of it even theirs. "What am I saying? You gentlemen are Starfleet officers -- the best. But, of course, lest we forget, once you make it out of there, you are still in the middle of Vulcan space."  
  
"You're right. She's right," nodded Trip emphatically, obviously making ready to leave.  
  
"You're right, we've bitten off more than we can chew; our eyes were bigger than our stomachs," Archer feigned dismissively as he rose to excuse himself. "Thank you for your time, Ambassador. Sorry to have disturbed you."  
  
V'Lar rose as well, her elegantly brocaded robes flowing, "Captain, you and I have established a pattern of trust from the incident with the Enterprise and the Mazars for which I am greatly indebted."  
  
Her attempt to dissuade the pair on their ambitious plan was falling on deaf ears, she knew. She only hoped that they realized the grave consequences of what they were attempting.  
  
Trip and Archer had neared the door, bluffing a disinterest in the importance of acquiring her powerful connections. "By the way, what were you two fine, upstanding officers planning to infiltrate?" V'Lar's voice carried across the reflecting pool.  
  
Archer glanced at Trip to concur. "Um... The Vulcan High Command Center," he said, matter-of-factly, as if they were planning a vacation cruise to Risa.  
  
"Science Directorate, B'Lagio." Piped Trip, cleaning the lens of his glasses.  
  
"Soval?" Now she began to understand. Of course -- the cancellation of their exploratory mission. She made the connection. Crossing quickly towards them, "What are your real designs against Soval?  
  
Archer squinted back, not ready to call, "What do you have against him? That's the question."  
  
She squared her shoulders without pausing, "He's reassigned nearly every major ambassador or replaced them with one of his people and now he's created this... this monstrosity. His Eighth Directorate." Her eyes darted furiously, ashamed to have displayed her anger so readily. "Don't think I don't see what you're doing, Captain."  
  
"What are we doing?" Archer quipped rhetorically.  
  
"If you entangle yourselves with Soval you might as well know: This sort of thing used to be civilized. In times past, any breech of technical security would be dealt with systematically, logically and thoroughly but with Soval -- he better not know you are involved, not know your identities, or think you are already dead, because he will eliminate you. And then he'll make sure that you never existed."  
  
"Then we'll need to be very careful," observed Archer dryly.  
  
"And precise," the ambassador replied, lowering her voice.  
  
"And well supplied," added Trip.  
  
"Yes." She contemplated momentarily, weighing the ethics of their endeavor and continued. "And, foolhardy too if I understand your colloquialism correctly. Doubtless you're going to need a crew as foolish as you are." V'Lar knew she could trust Archer implicitly and gave him the benefit of the doubt. She turned and smirked as only a Vulcan could, "Whom do you have in mind?"  
  
*Miramar*  
  
The lift from the flight line to the hanger deck eased to a cushioned halt bringing its occupant smoothly to the second level. Jonathan Archer nonchalantly scanned the floor and unbuttoned his jacket as he stepped from the glass turbo. The security badge that dangled from his lapel identified him as a visitor to the Basic Flight Training School based at Miramar, Starfleet's Aviation and Spaceflight Center. The aluminum composite decking reflected the 30 or so shuttlecrafts of various types parked in neat rows of five's as well as the evening sunset that spilled through the open western end of the hanger. Here, cadets and instructors huddled over cramped cockpits or practiced simple takeoff and station keeping maneuvers on the adjoining launch deck. Archer recognized a familiar face through an open shuttle door as a student departed the copilot seat. "Mr. Mayweather," Archer acknowledged, taking the seat next to his former helmsman.  
  
"Sorry sir, you have me mistaken for someone else." Travis didn't even glance up, having recognized his captain's voice. Their sudden return to Earth -- while seemingly no one's fault -- had exacted its psychological toll on the crew, the embarrassment of failure and stripping away of their own self-confidence. It was a subject most just didn't even want to talk about -- to anyone, let alone be reminded of it by familiarity. Travis wasn't part of that majority. The bridge crew knew in their hearts that the mission had not failed, that their captain acted accordingly, correctly and above all -- humanly. The trip home was long and eerily quiet, the crew was debriefed and reassigned while the ship was grounded along with the rest of Starfleet's deep space exploration fleet. Archer assumed the full brunt of the responsibility. His presence now, three months later brought a mixture of emotions. Travis was unsure just how to react except to pretend that Ensign Mayweather of the Starship Enterprise was a figment of someone's imagination. His life now, as a flight instructor had been both tedious and unfulfilling -- and a future he didn't much like pursuing.  
  
"I beg your pardon," Archer half smiled, feeling the intentional sarcasm of Travis' tone.  
  
"The name's Flight Officer Mayweather," Travis corrected him, pointing out his identification badge. "You might be more comfortable on the observation deck, sir," he recommended. Archer acquiesced, taking the hint. In public, they knew they were Starfleet's pariahs. Privately, the bond they shared would keep them together on a different plane. Travis knew the day would come when the pieces were in place to reset their role in space flight and they would do it on their own terms.  
  
Travis joined him twenty minutes later, "Good to see you again, Captain," a genuine smile crept across his face. Whatever the reason, whatever the resources, Travis knew his captain would return to set it right. Archer's expression returned in kind and he explained the plans already in motion.  
  
The instructor badge clattered to the floor followed by a trailing pair of echoing footsteps.  
  
*Burbank, California*  
  
Trip and Archer watched from a distance, just behind the last row of seats. The game show contestants were blindfolded as the large screens descended from the circus-like ring mounted high above. On each screen, multiple lines of pictograms, symbols or marks appeared -- topped in the center by a timer. The goal was to find the key and decode the message before the other three opponents. Daytime television hadn't changed much in two hundred years. This was Hoshi's third week on the popular show as returning champion, having racked up quite an impressive pile of prizes. She, of course, was a ringer and she knew it. So did the network executives whose advertisers scrambled to make the cut. Hoshi's other two opponents were women, coincidently Asian in origin, their first time on the program.  
  
"Which one is she?" Archer strained, trying to make out his communications officer from behind a pair of audience members partially blocking their view.  
  
"The little Japanese girl," Trip pointed out facetiously.  
  
Archer merely dropped his head at an angle, noting the unhelpful yet juvenile retort.  
  
The buzzer sounded, the blindfolds went down and the contestants began their deciphering. Chimes indicated a correct translation as each character was decoded. The timer had barely started as Hoshi's board chimed away, easily racing through the simple messages. The crowd cheered as the studio lights flashed another victory.  
  
"We got ourselves a code-breaker," applauded the two in unison.  
  
The dry Californian heat radiated from the parking deck as the two walked to their metropod. "We're going to need Phlox," Archer said, removing his jacket and repositioning it over his shoulder.  
  
"He left the medical exchange corps a month ago." Trip got in and immediately cranked the temperature controls.  
  
"You could ask him," Archer returned, knowing that wasn't enough reason not to get him back.  
  
"Hey, I could ask him," suggested Trip.  
  
"What about munitions?"  
  
"Reed's still around, but there may be a problem with availability."  
  
*Asteroid G-3916*  
  
The ring of explosions fired sequentially around the asteroid's deepest crater, ejecting bits of rock into the dust field of the Van Allen belt. The mining team scrambled over the edge dressed in bright orange EV suits. The lead demolition expert stepped into the hole surveying the results. "You tossers!" he bellowed through the intra-monitor headset, obviously not happy with the inaccuracy of the team's placement of his charges -- the heat having fused the crystalline treasure. A day's work ruined in their quest for the rare resources found only within this asteroid belt. Malcolm Reed turned back to his fellow miners, "Aw, leave it out," he bemoaned. "You had just one job to do, and you flubbed it." Like Trip, Reed found some interest in freelance work. However, the wildcat miners didn't have the legal claims for the asteroids.  
  
The patrolling authorities arrived shortly, having picked up the sudden release of energy and entrapped the team, their floodlights illuminating the entire dark side of the asteroid.  
  
Malcolm was grabbed immediately; there was nowhere else to go. The patrolman took him in custody.  
  
"Let me guess, Ajax thermocharges, Dililium seismic detonators with a 100 meter backwinder. You check this man for booby traps on his person?" came the voice from the somewhat official looking astronaut exiting from an inspection pod.  
  
"No, sir... who are -?" the patrolman barely glimpsed the security badge from the man's IdentPadd.  
  
"Go get Griggs," he ordered.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Find him!" he barked, taking Reed by the arm.  
  
An amused Trip seemed to enjoy seeing Reed suffer with mediocrity. There were times he felt Reed just held too great a standard for mere mortals to live up to. A little humbling now and then was good for his soul he figured. "The Captain and I have a little job with your name written all over it," Tucker continued. "Got time to throw something together with what I just slipped you?"  
  
"Already done." Reed whispered through his helmet intercom.  
  
The two hurried aboard Trip's pod just as Reed's fireworks went off, causing the desired diversion.  
  
"It'll be nice to work with proper villains again," Reed shot back, knowing whatever Archer and Trip had in mind would most likely be dangerous and hopefully beneath the eyes of Starfleet.  
  
*Provot, Utahnus*  
  
The stolen Tellarite freighter idled noisily, the main reactor infamous among stellar-wide engineers as the most ungainly and definitely unhealthiest sounding warp drive ever produced yet the fastest in raw statistics from zero to warp three. It's pilot yelled back from the cockpit, "I'm waiting. Just. Waiting." Characteristically impatient, everyone was considered an annoyance to him. Shran's antennae swiveled for any signs of response. The floor grates jumped and shimmied incessantly to the engine's drone causing the Andorian's sensitive receptors to painfully filter out the background clatter and adding plenty to his anxiousness to hastily proceed. "Let's go!" he snarled.  
  
Tholos, his associate, was busy storing away their provisions in the aft compartment. "Then go already. Go!" Andorian's traditionally bickered, even amongst the closest of friends. He didn't know what his rush was; the outer hatch had already been shut. Still, it was amusing to him to see how much it would take to rile his superior. Undaunted, Tholos intentionally reopened another storage locker.  
  
"You're like a little pinkskin. Don't make me leave this cockpit. I'll drop you faster than pre-school Vulcan," came the terse reply. Then, without warning, Shran disengaged the docking clamps and punched the throttle, leaving off the grav stabilizers. The other Andorian tumbled head over heels into the rear bulkhead from the instant momentum followed closely by the contents of the locker he had just opened. Shran cackled wickedly as he gripped the navigation controls. The freighter left orbit quickly, changing direction several times before disappearing at high warp.  
  
*New Amsterdam, Luna*  
  
The Stanford/Southern Cal water polo finals blazed across the small screens around the room. Trip starred at the large telescreen unblinking, his head thrown across a limp arm.  
  
"I dunno, Trip, you think we have enough? You think maybe we need one more?" Archer leaned on the bar sipping an ale, thinking aloud.  
  
The Stanford forward slammed a goal right at the period whistle eliciting a roar from the bar patrons. Neither officer flinched. Archer finished off the pint, "You think we need one more." Trip remained motionless, his mind light years away. Archer sighed, not waiting for an answer, "Okay, we'll get one more."  
  
*Beacon Hill, San Francisco*  
  
Archer blended into the passenger compartment of the streetcar watching the young man with interest. The kid reminded Archer of himself many years ago: idealistic, hopeful, naïve... Caldwell's recommendation came pretty highly.  
  
Archer followed him as he got off at the next stop and brushed past him, dropping a Starfleet issue communicator into his pocket.  
  
He waited in the bar, having instructed the young man where to meet him  
  
"Dad's a tad biased," the tall, lanky boy admitted. His father had engineered on the Warp Five Development Team along with Dr. Henry Archer.  
  
Archer slid the travel voucher between them.  
  
Robert "Bobby" April was in his fourth year at the Academy, and news of Enterprise's fate crushed many dreams for those with stars in their eyes, yearning for adventure. He picked up the tickets without hesitation.  
  
"Welcome aboard," Archer was himself anxious and beamed, feeling useful once again.  
  
TO BE CONTINUED 


End file.
